His new apartment in Stamford is depressingly empty. He left Scranton late in the day, so it's night now and he doesn't have the energy to unpack. So he just stands in the middle of his empty living room and slings his bag to the ground.

The walls are a non-committal off-white, and the carpet is a ragged color that might have once been blue. There's a window out to a ledge of a balcony, where the last occupant seems to have left some ugly ceramic pots behind. There's nothing in the pots, just spider webs.

He wearily goes back down to his car for the things he'll need for the night. He passes by the doors of his neighbors, and he wonders what they're like. Wonders if or how fast he'll make friends here. He continues on to wonder what his new co-workers will be like; thinks that with his luck, there'll probably be a Dwight. But he's trying to start over, so he doesn't think about receptionists.

His car looks different in the unfamiliar parking lot, under an unfamiliar light, surrounded by unfamiliar cars. He decides he likes it that way as he pulls a suitcase from the trunk and a plastic-wrapped plate of brownies from the passenger's seat. Mark's girlfriend made them for him, along with a card that reads "So Long, Jim!" Mark got him a case of beer, but he doesn't want to be any more pathetic than he already feels, so he leaves it in the car.

He puts the plate on the counter and it looks a little sad there all by itself. And his bag's still in the middle of the floor, and the suitcase goes into the little bedroom and now he doesn't know what to do. He didn't stop for dinner, but he doesn't want to drive around looking for a place in the dark in a strange town, and he doesn't know the numbers of any pizza places. He settles for a couple of brownies, and they're pretty good.

Tomorrow he'll find a grocery store, stock up his fridge for the first time. Milk, eggs, bread. He thinks maybe he'll get some cans of tuna and skip the cold cuts. He puts a few boxes of jell-o on his mental list without realizing he doesn't do that sort of thing anymore.

The walls seem too close and too wide when he wakes up in the morning. The bathroom is too bright and everything is in a different place than he's used to. Breakfast is water from the tap and a couple more brownies, but they're slightly stale because he forgot to cover them back up.

It's when he glances out the window and sees a completely foreign view from the one he expected that he bites his lip and grinds the heels of his palms against his prickling eyes and goes to bring in the rest of his stuff from the car.

He tells himself it won't be so hard. Being alone.